Broken Lives
by Gypsy Love
Summary: Johnny's mother visits him in the hospital.


That kid got himself into a world of trouble. It was those low life no good hoods he was always hanging out with. Me and his father tried to keep him away from that element, but you know kids. They never listen. Now he was in all this trouble with the cops, and he was in the hospital. I felt the worry, though, the deep restless kind of worry. I tried to think he'd be okay. Of course he'd be okay.

Johnny made me angry a lot of the time, and I'd screamed at him more times than I could count. He was always skipping school and getting into trouble. His dad would whip him but it never did any good. It was like that kid couldn't learn. But I did have to admit that sometimes his father's beatings went too far, but that was because he was drunk. And I'd feel guilty about that, even though I didn't do it. I didn't hit him, not since he was little. But when I would see the black eyes and the bruises on him I'd feel guilty, and when I'd see that nervous look in his eyes I'd feel guilty. It was hard not to. I thought of just up and leaving his dad, taking Johnny with me. But where would we go? There was nowhere to go.

I went over to the hospital, feeling weird and out of place, walking by nurses and doctors who were so busy, too busy to notice me. I went up the stairs and to his room, hearing the funny silence that was in this place, that hush, the hum of machines. I crept forward, pushed open the door to his room and actually sucked in my breath. He didn't look okay.

He was laying perfectly still, and he was so pale. His hair was shorter, kind of cut poorly, and the dark color of his hair just made him look paler. He was breathing slowly and with these shallow breaths, and I saw the oxygen thing that was in his nose. I saw the IV's that snaked into his arms, both arms. I saw the burns on his shoulders, his arms, his chest and neck. I was afraid of all these injuries, afraid of him. Afraid he might die. Afraid I'd never get a chance to make things up to him.

"Johnny?" I said quietly. He wasn't named for my husband. He was named for my father. Truthfully I couldn't stand my husband much longer. He was a violent son of a bitch.

He stirred a little but didn't wake up. Maybe he couldn't wake up. This was intensive care. I looked down at him, feeling a mixture of emotions. I was so angry with him for ending up like this, for not listening, for never listening. I felt so guilty, a small part of myself understanding that it was rough at home for him. His father, I'd seen those beatings and I knew how it was. I should have taken Johnny and left years ago, when his father's drinking first started to pick up. I should have done that despite the fact that it scared me and there was nowhere to go. Now look. Look at what has happened.

Maybe I was a terrible parent, a terrible mother. Maybe if I hadn't had him when I was so young, too young to know anything, to know any better, maybe things would have been different. He was, he was so hurt, I could see it. I saw the bluish cast to his lips and fingernails. I saw the way he laid so still under the white sheet and blanket.

I took his hand in mine, and it was limp. I looked at the ragged fingernails, how he had bitten every one right down to the skin, and the skin around his nails was all ragged. He had always been such a nervous kid. I wished then that things were different. That his father didn't drink so much, that he had a decent job and we had a decent place to live in a decent neighborhood. We lived in a run down house in the worst part of town. I wished that Johnny hadn't been treated so badly by his father. I remembered one time when his father was drunk and he slammed Johnny against the wall. I closed my eyes, trying to wish it all away.

"Johnny?" I said again, hoping he would wake up just for a moment. But he didn't. He just lay there perfectly still, breathing in that shallow way. I could hear the oxygen tank humming next to him, and the IV machines made these little beeps every so often. It was hot in here, like it usually was in hospital rooms, the heat cloying, stifling. He could die, maybe. He was that sick. And if he died then what would I be? What would I be if I wasn't failing as his mother?

I'd have to go soon. But I didn't want to. I wanted to stay here with him and see if he'd die or get better. I didn't think I could deal with things if he died. I didn't appreciate him all these years. All I would do was yell and scream at him. But he was a good kid, despite hanging out with all those hoodlums. I'd never appreciated him while I could.


End file.
